


The Man Who Smelled of Galbana Lilies

by Rokko Hera (Regina_Hark)



Series: The Man Who Smelled of Galbana Lilies [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Forgotten Lover AU, Identity Porn, M/M, Vaan Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-02 23:36:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5268122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regina_Hark/pseuds/Rokko%20Hera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vaan is a thief, eighteen and working the alleyway when he bumps into this strange, coin-purse carrying soldier. Things go down the way Vaan expects them to until the young thief smells Galbana lilies. And things gets physical in all the lip-smacking ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Man Who Smelled of Galbana Lilies

**Author's Note:**

> How strange is it to look into a tag, years later, and find that there are only three fics that ship Vaan/Vayne and two of them is yours?! I find myself confused and rattled because, Vayne is such a woobie destructor of worlds and Vaan would straighten that shit out. 
> 
> So agedup! Vaan cause Vayne is already like ten years older than him. As of the start of this fic, he's eighteen and nineteen when the game's plot starts rolling around. Let's just say the resistance movement needed more time to start so that's another two years. This is going to be a series of connected one-shots because I'm digging that sort of format at the moment. Less pressure to update.

Vaan knows this, learns this, when he is slammed against the brick wall of the north side alleyway, a few blocks from Migelo’s storehouse.

Not then, blinking back pain and surprise and anger to be stopped in doing his work. Stealing. Snatching. A dozen of ex-soldiers waltz by Lowtown, practically in packs nowadays, but they know better than to bring their presence around the North Sprawl.

And this is Vaan’s turf, this alley alone underground, the perfect place for pocketing easy gil from drunks and tipsy men waddling their asses home from the Sandsea. Nobody _fights_ him for it, he’s the quickest unregistered thief that still works Lowtown. And nobody fights _him_ in it because it’s better to hand over your cash and feed some orphans than be a dick and get drunker. And if a drunk is looking for the sweet release that only ale can provide, then Vaan has bricks perfect for knocking an asshole out cold.

His alley is pitch-black, dark and divine aside from the twin torches that light each end.

The scant bits of light they provide is more of hindrance to his passing money-tickets than it is to him. Everyone needs time to get readjusted to the darkness, time that Vaan is never willing to provide. So even with his arm on the verge of dislocating, Vaan thinks little of about cutting this strange asshole free. It’s been a slow night and that means a long day of being hungry. With a jerk of his boot, a sliver of a knife slits out of his heel. Vaan wrenches back and the man darts out of the way, before colliding backwards into another oddly angled wall. It’s with this, Vaan realizes the man doesn’t know Lowtown or Vaan with his alley. It has a name, even the Imperial Guards, rare as they are to make rounds in Lowtown, know of it.

The Ratsbane Maze that favors only the short and young.

The man makes a grunt of displeasure and Vaan hardly relents. The young thief pulls out a cheap knife with the right sort of blackened metal that reflects the faraway light, silhouetting it in flame-light. Then he swings, chasing the man who dodges and dips out of the way with skill. But with stupidity as Vaan forces him further and further into his maze of an alleyway. Directing with his knife, the man bumps and slams and thumps into the crooked and confusing passage. Jutting bricks from the wall sides eats at his defense, he can hardly spare a glance at what’s behind him while Vaan keeps on thrusting forward like a fanged wolf.

Trash and debris slow his steps.

Then the ceiling above drops a few feet and that bastard is forced to fend Vaan off in a crouch. Now squatting, the few holes in the walls shoot beams of blinding florescent light from the back of stores they pass in the passage. Vaan closes his eyes, so familiar with this place, he could lose them and still be good for business. The man doesn’t and what a shame, what a shame. The man grunts in confused pain and keeps fending Vaan’s blows. The alleyway wasn’t much of a real alleyway, more like another sewer tunnel that just happened to go unfinished and fall into the hands of any Lowtown thief.

This guy, he’s trained, likely some big-shot on the battlefield but that don’t mean shit in Vaan’s house.

The low ceiling eases up and the man’s back to standing upright. But he’s easy now. He’s disoriented, confused and wobbly on those two feet, that, in any other situation, would be kicking Vaan’s ass right about now. Vaan silently sheaths his knife and without it, the man can’t find him in the darkness. The young thief circles him, watching the man hold his ground and hearing the sweet, sweet sound of money rattling in the man’s pocket.

That wasn’t just a few coins, ma'am. But a pocketful. Cha-ching!

"What’cha doing in Lowtown, soldier?" Vaan drawls, directing his voice to bounce off the walls, "Don’t you know whose alley this is? If you wanted safe passage, you shoulda came during the day. There’s a fee you gotta pay at night. So," Vaan pauses mid-speech, a faint whiff of something in the air, sweet and nostalgic, "where’s my money?"

"I’m unfamiliar to this sort of hold-out," the man warily admits, turning his head where he thinks Vaan might be standing. He’s almost right. Vaan’s standing just a few inches to the left. Seeing this, Vaan quickly changes his spot. "My contact has yet to inform me in great length about the strange customs that come from Lowtown. Apologies."

Vaan squints, his ears confused by the strange, regal-tilt of the man’s voice. No ordinary soldier would sound so refined. A high-ranking squadsmen? A lieutenant even? All sorts of soldier-types have been gathering in Lowtown and Vaan didn’t like it one bit.

"My money."

"Is needed for elsewhere," the man replies frankly, "Arrangements that I’ve already given my word to."

"Too bad. I hope they take apologies!"

Vaan pounces, feigning a straight punch. The man blocks but Vaan gives no fucks, hooking his leg around the ex-soldier and digging with his free hand into the man’s pockets. It’s a simple move. In and out, but this fucker hides his money differently. One second. Two seconds. Vaan’s slower than usual and his mind is throwing out, ‘shit, shit, shit.’ With a finger, he hauls out his prize and gets slammed again in the narrow space, the sound of their breaths deafening.

The pouch, his pouch now, jingles with its fat, engorged body.

The man presses him harder against the wall, a hand gripping the thief’s arm to make him let it go. Pain is quick and ugly and that man’s a cheater, Vaan’s fingers twitch in agony as the bastard increases his grip. And then he smells it. _Galbana lilies_. The floral scent a stranger to the trash and sweat and sin that sinks up his alley. The pouch is nearly about to slip out his hand and his mind is clouded by the aroma. It makes him kind of stupid. Vaan reaches forward, the man’s taller than him but not so that a few inches couldn’t be crossed by his tips of his toes.

Their faces collide and before the man could react, Vaan kisses him. Soundly.

The pouch drops from his hand because he needs both of them to keep his victim distracted. His fingers meets fabric and claws in, forcing the tall fucker to bend. The scent of the lilies is everywhere, spilling out like a summer-day storm, dousing his senses while spurring him on. The man doesn’t fight him, his mouth opens in surprise or bafflement or in anger but Vaan kisses. Kisses all the same. Coxes the man into moving his lips as well. Vaan’s tongue slides in and the man doesn’t struggle. It’s wet and noisy and Vaan hears his heart trying to escape by banging against his chest. But it’s also thrilling and hot and heady and Vaan never wanted a heart anyways. Vaan leans into the man and the man leans into the wall, sliding down but dragging Vaan along with him.

The need for air is apparent but Vaan knows, thinks he knows, that he only has one shot.

Vaan pulls back for oxygen and all the foul stenches he forgot about that make their homes in this passageway rushes into his poor nostrils. God, it reeks. He’s aware of their position, him kneeling in the man’s lap, and the temptation to try digging in the man’s pockets a little more and he thinks- And the man pulls him right down, mashing their lips together. They kiss and Vaan doesn’t think of much anymore, mouths messily bruising each other. Pleasure runs unexpectedly down his spine, so good, and just a little bad, because there’s still the pouch on the ground. The money. His money.

A moan bubbles out of his throat and Vaan stiffens in place, using the moment to escape the lip-lock.

Vaan rests his forehead against the man, a temporary peace between them before Vaan, smart Vaan, headbutts the bastard. Seeing stars and little else, Vaan bolts out of the man’s grabbing range and snatches the pouch on the way out.

He slinks into South Lowtown with swollen lips, a bruised cheek and a lot more gil than what he had before.

Penelo isn’t here so nobody questions where he’s been. Nobody needs to ask. He looks worse than before; his clothing ruffled, his eyes wide-eyed and his breath, it wheezes, rattles, as he catches his breath. But he’s alive and not in Imperial chains, another fool to be shipped off to the Nalbina Dungeons, or, as they do for petty thieves, hung in the city square. Vaan still has his limbs, his wits and the tell-tale banging and clanging of bucket-headed armor hasn’t followed him home. That’s good enough for the people who keep an eye on him.

That would never be good enough for Penelo and so he’s thankful not to see her disappointed gaze or blonde twin braids in the crowd of people around him.

The jobless adults give him the stink-eye. They have some weird notion that it’s better to be unemployed and poor, than rich and dead. The aging ex-soldiers scoff at him, their eyes roving the perimeter like they’re still at war and anything could happen. If trouble followed him here, they’d be happy to have the chance to fight and die with ‘that old Dalmascan’ dignity. And yet, there’s nothing stopping them from throwing themselves at a Imperial patrol. They were nothing but talk. A few women pray, thanking some god that another child hasn’t gone missing.

Funny.

Vaan isn’t a child and hadn’t thought himself one since his parents kicked the bucket and Reks, stupid good-for-nothing Reks, died for what he believed in. A year has passed since Reks’ murder and it still stung. His parents, they went when he was young but Reks, he shouldn’t, he didn’t need to die- But that didn’t stop every Lowtown resident from lumping him in the same category as an infant. A infant that was big enough to be hanged properly, weights not needed.

The gold jingling in the pouch strapped to his hip summons the younger children, the orphans, the abandoned, the ones too young to work but too broken and bitter to complain in public. As always, if he can afford it, he gives two gil a piece. Every child should have some spending money. Then what’s left -and surprise, surprise, Vaan has plenty left and everyone gives him a doubletake- he gives one-third to the food pot. He imagines everyone around is counting the gil he’s giving out like free candy. A hundred gil to the kids. Four hundred to the pot so everyone could eat well tonight. _How much did that boy earn?_ Their eyes, flickering in the yellow dirty light that Lowtown knows so well, tells stories to one another, quick glances and shakes of their head. There’s no doubt in their minds.

The boy would be hung tomorrow.

And his pouch still jingles, swollen with cash.

And they’re right.

He gets hung upside down by the very same bastard from last night, shaking Vaan down not for the coin, but for the pouch he stole. Spouting some shit that his little brother stitched it for him as a good luck charm. Vaan’s pants is polite enough to fork over the goods and the asshole lets him go. While bending low to pick up his precious pouch, Vaan hears the unmistakable jingle of more cash, _fresh cash_ that has to be bulging somewhere in the man’s pockets.

Vaan launches himself at him, happily swapping spit to dig into the man’s slacks.

And so starts their business-relationship. Where said strange ex-soldier avoids the heck out of Vaan to avoid losing his cash.

And he can’t.

_It’s Lowtown._

And Vaan won’t stop, because holy shit, _free money_!

**Author's Note:**

> *pops the champaign* I'm back on Ao3!


End file.
